


Hide Me In Your Holiness

by EyeofMazikeen



Series: Abnormally Attracted to Sin [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied Underage, M/M, Masturbation, Preist!Sebastian, Priest Kink, Roman Catholicism, mormor, underage!Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeofMazikeen/pseuds/EyeofMazikeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cliche as it is, it’s always started the same way.  A voice, soft and lilting behind the ornate privacy screen that separates the priestly side of the confessional from the layman’s side.</p>
<p>“Forgive me father, for I have sinned....”</p>
<p>They’re the words Sebastian (most) least wants to hear.  Even in the very beginning, that very first time, he knew that something, from the minute that little Irish bastard walked into his confessional, that things were about to change.  Not necessarily for the better.  Not exactly for the worse, either.  Jim Moriarty has always defined different.  Just because Father Sebastian Moran is a priest doesn't mean he’s exempt from having his life upended.</p>
<p>In fact, it just might make him that much more appealing of a target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide Me In Your Holiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FugalGear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FugalGear/gifts), [Brynncognito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/gifts).



 

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned....”

_(8 years ago) - Ware, Hertfordshire_

“... It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

The lilting voice is young, nervous, and so very tense.  Too young to be an adult, though god knows it isn’t stopping what Father Moran can only think of as ‘the kid’ on the other side of the confessional from treating the situation with the gravitas it deserves.  He sounds serious, so very serious.  Like God himself was waiting on the other side of the old oak booth to lay a righteous judgement upon him.

Sebastian, though relatively new at taking confession, knows that a little silence goes a long way.  It’s not only a priest's duty to hear confessions, to act _in persona Christi,_ but to make sure that the penitent is in full understanding of their sin so they can truly confess, and therefore truly be absolved.

Silence, when offered, is usually filled.  The boy on the other side of the booth sighs; a soft and almost sweet intake of breath as he gathers his nerve before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking impure thoughts. “  Not exactly a shocker, that.  The kid on the other side of the screen sounds what, all of about thirteen?  Boys his age are pretty much made of impure thoughts.

“Go on, my child.”  It’s an immense effort on Sebastian’s part not to laugh, and only a slightly milder effort to not let the dry (almost bitter) humor seep into his voice.  The nuns at Allen Hall weren’t kidding when they said that Sebastian Moran, while brimming with dedication, barely had the temperament necessary to be a man of the cloth.

Then again, without Allen Hall and the Church to guide him, it was back to the army or worse, back home.  Seminary school seemed like a blessing when weighed against both those options.  Besides.  All that church his mother forced him into, all the prayers and litanies his father beat into him were now at least serving a purpose.  And... well.  It was peaceful.

Or at least it was peaceful on his side of the confessional.  The penitent sitting in the box across from him seemed to be having a much more difficult time.  Through the privacy grate Sebastian could see the boy fidget, suppressed squirms and frequent rolls of his thin shoulders causing his clothes to rustle.  Well, it was no surprise.  Sex and guilt and puberty are the worst possible threesome.  Sebastian knows, he’s been there himself.

“I turn to impurity frequently, Father..  I can’t seem to stop myself, and when I try to turn to prayer instead, it gets... complicated.”  There's something almost like a frustrated little growl that accompanies the words as whisper through the silent, sacred space between them.

“And how is prayer complicated for you?”  It’s a slightly puzzling dilemma, though not entirely uncommon.  Sometimes it’s hard to focus on the meditative side of prayer, especially when so many other things can.  But to find it so frustrating?  It’s... interesting.

“Because I get down on my knees at the end of the bed, and close my eyes and start to recite the Lord’s Prayer but all I hear is **you**.”

The silence that rings between the two confessional booth is deafening.  There should be words.  He should be speaking, guiding, saying something to the parishioner across from him but all Sebastian can do is take a calculated breath and hope that this isn’t going where he ho- _thinks_ it is.

“I see you, you know.  Around campus.  Teaching classes.  Giving sermons.  And...”  The voice trails off shyly, and Sebastian finds he has to lean in closer to the privacy divider to hear it when it picks back up again.  Not from eagerness on Sebastian's part, certainly.  But there is an expectation that one’s sins, when confessed to a priest, will be heard so that the sacrament of penance can be appropriately administered.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, Father.”  Satan himself couldn’t make the title sound more appealing.  The (much, his brain emphasizes, and it has the opposite of the desired effect; heightening the tension between them instead of dispelling it altogether) younger man’s voice has changed, from shy and reticent to outright indulgent and sinful.  

“You’re always on my mind.  Your voice, slightly rough as you guide us through the Apostle’s Creed.  Your hands, on the altar.  On the host.  And I can’t help but think of those hands on me.”

“A-and...”  Again, an almost bashful stutter.  The potential energy of the moment hangs suspended between them, ready to tip over at the slightest sound from outside.  “I can’t help it.  I think about you and... I touch myself Father.”  

It’s a whispered secret, soft and low and full of more suggestion than it is guilt.  The sound of it, so unapologetic and brutally tempting, sends tendrils of lust tangling through his entire system; redirects all his blood down to his groin.  Hell.  forget the penitent across from him, Sebastian’s own cock is at least half hard, rapidly filling out the black wool of his priestly vestments, simply from the sound of that damned voice and the terrible, sinful, so shamefully enjoyable things it was suggesting.

“Through my pants at first.  Then it wasn't enough.  I had to feel skin.  My hands aren't big like yours are.  They’re not rough either.  But if I close my eyes and touch myself just so...”  He’s doing it now, Sebastian can tell.  The idea should be disgusting.  Appalling.  Shocking and horrifying and distasteful and blasphemous.  All Father Moran can feel is the ghost of guilt, pushed to the background by a massive tide of lust for the fact that he doesn't actually feel any of those things.

“A-ah.  I can sort of get it to feel right.” A soft little groan couples another few frantic movements on the other side of the privacy screen, and Sebastian’s mouth all but waters with the mental images the shadow play created by the latticework between them.  He’s left to sin on his own, to fill in the blanks, to imagine what this mysterious boy and his (well worked, from the sound of it) cock look like.  It’s all a blur of half remembered encounters in the dark halls of boarding school to the backs of stolen cars in moments of youthful indiscretion to one memorable time in the back of an only temporarily vacated barracks.

“I _want_ to stop myself, Father, I _do_.”  It’s an almost plaintive whine, but there’s subtle defiant undercurrent that sets the hairs on the back of Sebastian’s neck to standing.  This is all too surreal, too fucking odd and tempting and wrong and... fuck.  That little bastard is panting now, the sound of his shallow breath coming in time with barely restrained movements of his shoulders and... and....

He’s not.  He can’t be.  Oh... oh god.  He is.  Once identified, there’s no mistaking the rhythmic, if still largely suppressed rocking of the body across the confessional from him.  His penitent, whoever it is, is quite obviously... laying hands on themselves while receiving (or at least attempting to receive) a sacrament.

As much as Sebastian would like to tell himself that it’s just shock that keeps him from moving, from interrupting, from putting a stop to things like he damn well should, he’s just not that good of a liar.  To himself, to God and any of the bloody saints that might be witnessing it.  Lust and fascination root him in place, frozen as the only witness to such a blasphemous act.

“But it feels _so good_.”  Another few desperate pants, this time coupled with a slight whine that drops straight from the lump in Sebastian’s stomach to the taut mess of lust and guilt knotted up between his navel and his groin.

Besides, there’s something about the almost desperate quality of that lilting voice that makes something inside him unfurl; something lon

g repressed and unabashedly feral.

Part of seminary was taking a lot of classes, having a fuck ton of discussions about dealing with temptation.  While not naturally inclined to a life of celibacy, Sebastian thought that he’d be prepared for the worst the world had to throw at him.   _**Nothing** _ he learned during his time at Allen Hall prepared him for this.  Funnily enough, his own time at St. Edmund’s (dutifully suffered through before army, then Seminary, before returning as a campus priest and part time teacher) certainly had.

Catholic schools.  Full of the young, beset on all sides by those dead set on forcing them to repress every wild impulse and hormone rush, fed shame and punishment for every indiscretion in hopes that they’d all fit the same saintly mold... or at least appear to.  A _wonderful_ system, Sebastian knew firsthand.  What it got you was a terrific little group of skilled liars and sneaks with massive guilt complexes.  Usually with a goodly amount of BDSM kink thrown in for good measure.

It was odd that he joined the priesthood given his feelings on the matter, but if his time in Afghanistan taught him one thing it was that if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  Well.  That was about 80% of the reason he ended in Seminary, and then back at St. Edmund’s in the first place.

So here he was, newly ordained Father Sebastian Moran, surrounded with kids just like the kind he used to be.  Good at committing sin, best at hiding it.  Funny, it seemed that for all the sins this penitent had been engaging in, he didn’t want to hide much at all.  Wanking in a semi public confessional booth in front of the object of your impure thoughts didn't really speak to a desire for divine mercy.  Divine forgivness. Divine pleasue was the only thing Sebastian could hear in the harmonics of that devilish lilt. 

“All I hear is your voice, over and over.  I can see you in my mind’s eye, Father, as clearly as if you were standing before me.  Your hands on my head, fingers tangled in my hair, pressing my mouth down.. down... down...”

“In my fantasy I suck you off as you say St. Micheal’s prayer for us both, swallow every centimeter you down as you pray for our forgiveness.”  The boy’s voice is more hushed than usual, breathless and quick and Sebastian can’t tell if it’s because of shame or... something else.

“Oh God.”  They’re the first words Sebastian speaks during the whole ordeal, and it’s enough to push the young man across from him over the edge.

“O-oh... oh.   _Oh_.  Look, Father.”  One pale hand raises in front of the privacy divider.  “I’ve done it again.”  A soft series of sucking noises follows the half moan, half stuttered exclamation.  It’s hard to tell in the low light, but they seem long and thin and... just a bit wet.

“I think I’ve done it again, Father.  Should I confess that too, or do I get some sort of free pass on confessing things that you’ve witnessed?”  That’s no boy’s voice, not any more.  It’s predatory, dark, and while it sounds young there’s very little that’s _youthful_ about it.  That dancing lilt is nothing but smug satisfaction, post coital bliss and just the barest hints of a deep, untouched hunger.

The sensations that cascade through Father Sebastian Moran at the sound of it are the very definition of improper.  Indecent.  There’s very little that’s sacred or pious inside him at that moment.  It’s all barely suppressed lust and an immense amount of sinful delight as he listens to the young man on the other side of the booth slowly, deliberately suck every last drop of come off his fingers.

“I’ll see myself out then, shall I?”  There are wicked lips twisted in laughter on the other side of the confessional.  Sebastian knows this as deeply as he knows that he’s stumbled into some sort of exceptional hell.  Any more introspection is cut short by that dancing lilt, filthy and rich and penetrating, as it echoes through the (hopefully) empty church around them.  The voice is confident, brash, and above all damnably loud.  None of those qualities make it any less desirable.

“I do hope I haven’t burdened you terribly with my confession.  I hear sin, even to the most devout, can potentially be contagious.  I hope you don’t find me catching, Father.”  There’s a momentary pause in the speech, just long enough for a wink.  He can’t see it through the divider, but Sebastian knows damn well that the cheeky little fuck did it all the same.

“Good night, Father.  And sweet dreams.”  There’s a rustle of cloth again as the penitent stands, one hand rattling the thick oak door as it opens just a crack before Sebastian can find the words to stop his retreat.

“Wait.”  Even half choked out, he manages to make the word sound commanding.  Fortunately, it’s enough to make the body on the other side halt.  The words of the sacrament flood back to Sebastian’s mind, replacing the doubt and the lust and the particularly sweet rush of endorphins that filled him when he realized exactly what that filthy, clever mouth had been doing.  The rite  spills from him in a rush, half prayer of absolution and half protective magic spell to keep the demon (inside) across from him at bay.

_God the Father of mercies,_

_through the death and resurrection of his Son_

_has reconciled the world to himself_

_and sent the Holy Spirit among us_

_for the forgiveness of sins;_

_through the ministry of the Church_

_may God give you pardon and peace,_

_and I absolve you from your sins_

_in the name of the Father, and of the Son,_

_and of the Holy Spirit._

_Amen._

“I absolve you of your sins.  Now go forth, and give thanks to the Lord for he is good.”  By the time he reaches the end of the rite he’s practically panting, and not simply from lack of breath.  The entire scene has somehow become unbearably erotic; taboo and sinful in ways that hit buttons Sebastian thought he’d locked down and hidden away years ago.

“Yeah...”  The giggle that accompanies the whisper is sin incarnate.  Seductive and mocking and fuck... there has to be at least eight million things wired wrong in his head and in his heart and certainly in his cock because it shouldn't sound or feel that good coming from someone that young.

“God _is_ good.  But I bet he’s not half as good as you.  Catch you later, Father Moran.”  A hot flash of panic burns away the fog of lust clouding his mind because... fuck.  There are several priests on campus.  And while the old iron privacy screens aren't exactly impenetrable, it should be relatively difficult for the younger man to have known exactly who it was across from him unless...

Well.  He did say he spent a lot of time listening to Sebastian’s voice.  Maybe he recognized it.  Maybe it was a damned lucky guess.  Maybe the whole debacle was just some sort of insane, cruel, and really sexually confusing joke.

Only vaguely haunted by the ghost of his experience, Sebastian manages to make it through the rest of his (fortunately much less interesting and infinitely less complicated) confessions halfway back to his chambers before realizing, with stark terror, that his mysterious penitent doesn't just have a priest fixation.  It seems that he has a fixation specifically on Sebastian _himself_.

It’s flattering and disturbing all at once.  A scenario made all the more unsettling by the fact that Sebastian, doesn't have the slightest idea who he is.

Though, he thinks to himself with a sharp clench of his square jaw, the mystery penitent's identity is certainly going to be worth finding out, if only to keep something so dangerous and wholly improper from ever happening again.

Yeah.

If  _only_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for what is quickly becoming known as PreistKink!Mormor Christmas. Hehehe. For the wonderful Brynn and my unrepentant partner in MorMor crime, Aidan. What have you bastards done to me?!
> 
> In theory there will be more chapters detailing several of Jim's other confessions, but for now this remains a stand alone story. While I have an abundance of ideas from Aidan as to horrible, filthy, kinky shit these two fucks can get up to in a church please feel free to leave suggestions as to what type of depravity I can work in to hit all your kink buttons, folks. <3
> 
> Porn Credits for this chapter go to: 
> 
> Brynncognito for requesting Priest!Kink in the first place
> 
> DreamMasterLoki for confessional wanking and the whole general idea of Preist!Kink MorMor age gap depravity


End file.
